with birdsong written on her body

her hands tracing remembered flight patterns in the space above her

and her name on her tongue,

unpronounceable

i only want to feel something more than this boredom of sadness and solitude

hard hands soft on my body

hot breath expelled as he catches my saporific scent

skin on skin

as his intent stretches over my sweetness

and swallows all of me

and a mission might end is here

in this space between us

where i am

warm and willowed

where his eyes, his hands and his mouth are on me

where we communicate in a way

that makes me feel so completely a woman

sweet, attenuated and sacred

and she came to the understanding that perhaps she would need fall

and fall far indeed

to a new depth of territory

wherein, as with the ocean,

all would be deeper and colder

and the resident creatures would be found to produce their own light

as she herself would need do

because he wants to take her to the edge

light her up

ground her

and return her to the stars

rolling in this moment, this patch of bright territory

this song

you stored in aluminum

amidst the eggplants and bell peppers

and, so, i will cook with your words on my tongue

your rhythm opening road at my center

hip, whispers and eyes

swish, tickle and pry:

what business is it of yours,

as i am not of you,

only through you

where and with whom

and how sweetly i lie

i do not require your approval

nor your forgiveness

they don’t know her

but for the soft surface

hard won

where are they

these words

lit up just beyond my grasp

don’t i nurture them

don’t i jump right in

give myself to them

don’t i absorb their energy

their bodies

their need

give them a soft place to fall

don’t i open myself up to receive all the movement

the skyfall, the breathless

and the unknown

don’t i hold it all as precious and make myself entirely vulnerable

do i not know myself as a vessel

do i not risk the whole of me

putting aside sleep

and better choices

and self-care

for this magic

this drift

this stretch and this burn and this light

at my center

and at the farthest reaches of all i could know

and hold it to me

all at my own peril

don’t i

The poem, Me Too, is upsetting. It was upsetting to write. Also upsetting, were the events that precipitated its writing. What I would like for everyone to understand is that I DO NOT hold ALL MEN responsible. Only the “baffled, rapacious” ones.

Sincerely, Laura